


Don't Hold Your Breath

by C_D_Wofford



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angry John Winchester, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Corporal Punishment, Discipline, Gen, Kid Fic, Physical Abuse, Pre-Series Dean Winchester, Pre-Series Sam Winchester, Protective Dean Winchester, Spanking, Summer, Swimming Pools
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-02
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2019-11-08 01:55:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17972252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/C_D_Wofford/pseuds/C_D_Wofford
Summary: Summer afternoons, motel pools, and one angry John Winchester. Turns out some forms of horseplay are a little more dangerous than they seem...at least, when Dad catches you. It's not that John doesn't care for his boys, but when he gets scared, he gets rough. Dean's got Sam covered though. This story contains discipline carried too far, typical of John.





	1. We Made It a Game

**Author's Note:**

> Just something that sprang to mind out of a conversation I had with my sister. This is my first foray into a discipline fic so, there's that. Be nice and don't expect too much. The first chapter is somewhat vague and Dean-centric, while the second provides more graphic detail and focuses on John's point of view. Anyway, if you like it, drop a comment! They make my day. ;)

His lungs burned. How was it that when you were running out of air, your chest felt like it was going to explode? He opened his eyes; the cold water knifed in, but blinking a few times he adjusted a enough to make out blurry images in the shifting patchwork of blue and white light reflected. There was Sam, eyes screwed shut, a few silver bubbles breaking loose from his clenched lips every few seconds, hair fanning out without the effect of gravity and lighting up with the beams of sunlight piercing the water. 

Suddenly the muted sounds of the waterscape were shattered deafeningly as a shock wave and furious cloud of bubbles as something heavy plunged through the surface just behind Dean. He jerked his head up out of the water to suck in a startled breath, at the same time he felt arms around him from behind and the next second he was lying on the sun-warmed concrete by the motel pool. He sat up just in time to see John breaching the surface again and tossing Sammy up beside Dean on the edge. Sam voiced a little startled yelp as he landed hard on his hip, the concrete scraping a raw spot just above the waistline of his trunks. 

They stared at the burly hunter, thick black hair hanging low over his forehead and streaming water down into his eyes, as he stood waist-deep in a motel pool fully clothed from his boots to his work-jacket, chest heaving…

“...Dad?” Dean asked. 

“Are you hurt?” John asked, sharply, pulling himself up out of the water and squatting beside Sam, looking both boys over quickly but thoroughly. Sam was shivering a little. 

“No sir, we were just messing around,” Dean said, confused. 

“Then do you wanna explain to me why you both were floating face-down for a solid minute and a half without moving?” The way his dark eyes drilled suddenly into Dean’s bright green ones and his voice dropped an octave, the way his words became slower and more deliberate...Dean felt they were definitely in dangerous territory. 

“We’ve been trying to train to hold our breath for a long time. You know, might come in handy sometime right? So we’ve been going longer and longer. It’s just practice.”

“Yeah, we made it a game, Dad,” Sam supplied, “I beat Dean twice. It’s easier to hold it if you’re not moving around a lot.” 

John stared at the two of them for a beat and then suddenly rose to his feet, dragging them with him by their arms. Dean stumbled a little, but managed to snatch his and Sam’s towels from the back of the pool chairs as his Dad hauled them out of the fenced enclosure and toward their room. 

“That’s smart, Sam, yeah,” he was growling. “Do you know why? Because you’re depriving your body of oxygen. You know you can pass out from that, right?” His grip was bruising. Sam’s eyes were wide and frightened. 

“We didn’t stay under, Dad, we came up to breathe…”

“Yeah, but if you passed out you wouldn’t have had that choice, would you? You’d have looked exactly the same, your brother wouldn’t have known anything was wrong until it was too late, and you’d have drowned for real. You understand me? Are you listening, Dean?”

“Yes sir,” he answered immediately, taking the moment John released them to unlock their room and let them in to wrap his arm around Sammy, who was looking a little white and echoed a shaky little “Y-yes sir, we’re listening.”

John tore some dry clothes out of their duffel and threw them at his sons, beginning to strip off his own coat and shirts, heavy and dripping with water. 

“Get some clothes on and then you park your butts front and center. You better not make me wait, boys. Not in the mood.”

There was an immediate, unison “Yessir,” and less than two minutes later they were dutifully standing side by side in the middle of the room in tee-shirts and jeans, their skin still wet and leaving damp patches in their dry clothes. John came out of the bathroom toweling his hair with quick, violent motions. Dean glanced over at his brother and noticed Sam’s jeans weren’t buttoned. He wondered if he’d only forgot or if he’d left it on purpose. He swallowed. 

“Eyes front,” John barked, and both boys obeyed at once. “What possessed you to think that was a good idea?”

“It was me, Dad,” Dean said, head held high, meeting his Dad’s stony gaze. “I told Sam we should try it. It was my idea.”

Sam looked over at him, wide-eyed. It was absolutely not Dean’s idea. He stayed quiet though; interrupting Dad was the definition of stupid, and John was already tearing into his eldest son.

“What is wrong with you, Dean? You’re supposed to be looking out for your brother when I’m busy, not getting him to nearly commit accidental suicide! That would have been on your head; do you think you could handle living with that? You think you couldda dragged his limp body out of the water, kid? But no, you’re the one letting him hold his face under water and look dead for minutes at a time, for some kind of stupid game? Daring him to go longer, egging him on...Dean, you could have killed Sammy.”

Dean’s mouth was dry but he stared dutifully straight ahead. 

“Yes sir,” he croaked. 

“Sam, eyes front! Son, you can’t let Dean’s stupid ideas cancel out your own brains. You’re smart, kid, if your report cards mean anything; act like it! Do you understand me?”

Sam’s face was crumpled up as he tried to keep his chin from quivering and his tears from escaping down his chlorinated cheeks. He nodded, sucking in a quick breath. 

“Y-yessir. I didn’t think it was dangerous…”

“What if it was Dean that passed out, Sam? Forget that; what if it was both of you? I am not losing anyone else in this family, especially over some stupid immature dare. It’s not happening, I’m not having it! DO YOU UNDERSTAND?” 

Sam was actually crying now. He nodded frantically, the wet strands of his longer hair falling forward into his streaming eyes. 

“Yes sir, I’m sorry. I’m sorry we scared you, Dad, I’m sorry.” 

John stood there, arms crossed, staring down his sons for another long minute. Then he put a hand on Sam’s head. 

“Alright, enough with the water-works, Sam. Hit the showers and then get in bed. I don’t wanna hear anything from you until after dinner. Go.” 

Sam threw his arms around John for a quick, desperate hug and then darted off into the little motel room bath, scrubbing the tear-tracks from his face with the heel of his hand and gulping air to get his composure back. When the door closed behind him, John turned to Dean and pointed toward the room door. 

“Outside, son. Move.”

Dean nodded, opening the door and stepping out into the July afternoon heat, the sun making waves in the air over the asphalt of the parking-lot where Dad’s beautiful car was parked just outside their room. Dad’s hand was heavy on the back of his neck, steering him toward the hood. Dean felt his heart sink down into his stomach, but didn’t fight it. Sammy could have died. You think you couldda dragged his limp body out of the water? He fought to swallow around the painful stone lodged in his throat. 

The sun-baked black finish of the Impala seared his hands and his stomach through his tee-shirt as he leaned forward over it. He hissed and lifted his hands so they hovered just over the surface, only his fingertips touching. Dad didn’t lecture anymore, and a second later the stinging pain of the heated metal burning his hands was only another facet to the pain he was experiencing. He squeezed his eyes closed, biting his lip until he realized it was bleeding and quickly let it go, turning his head to bite a mouthful of his Metallica tee-shirt sleeve instead. 

John paused; Dean was totally silent. 

“Are you holding your breath?”

Dean paused, and then let out a lungful of air in a gasping, wet whoosh, sucking in another shaky gasp, realizing he hadn’t been breathing. There’d been no room in his mind for anything but the punishment he was just trying to hang on through. He heard John curse quietly, and the next vicious blow drove a grunt from him and nearly had him standing up. He crossed his arms on the sizzling hood and buried his face, trying to stay down. Breathe...just remember to breathe. The last coherent thought he had before the pain again became too much to function through was that it would have been real nice if he’d passed out before Dad noticed. 

The room was cool and dark after the blazing agony outside. The curtains were drawn, the blinds closed, the rattling old AC unit under the window whirring away. Sammy was just a quiet lump in bed. Dad didn’t speak a word, he just went right for the flask he kept in his bag, sitting down at the little table and opening his journal and a book from the stack he’d picked up at the local library last night. Dean stiffly crawled into bed beside his little brother, exhaustion pulling at every part of him. He grimaced and sucked in a breath as he tried to slide under the sheet beside Sam, blinking back the annoying tears springing back unbidden to his eyes. 

Sam rolled over, almost asleep. 

“You okay?”

“Yeah, golden. I just burned my hands on the car a minute ago. Hurts like a mother.” John didn’t let the boys say the full expression, but Dean always liked to get as close as he could. It made him feel bigger and stronger...more like Dad.

“Don’t hold your breath,” Sam whispered, groggily. 

“Yeah, I got that, Sammy,” Dean murmured, “Thanks.”

“No, I mean...oxygen helps pain. Breathe slow. It’ll help.”

“Nerd.” 

“Jerk.”

Dean opened his mouth for the customary retort but John’s eyes met his from across the room, a warning look in them. He immediately lay down, one arm resting protectively over his little brother. And if John heard the last whispered word of the conversation, he didn’t comment.


	2. Dead in the Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What went on in John's head when he looked out the window and his heart stopped?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised -and requested by a beta reader- a second chapter with more detail throughout Dean's punishment and some explanation as to why John did what he did. Things are hardly ever black and white, much as we'd like them to be.

“Dad, Dean took the remote!”

“Not like you’re paying attention anyway, bookworm.”

“Boys…”

John didn’t even look up from the police report he was scouring, making marks in red on a map of town corresponding with recent deaths. His half-distracted, half irritated warning quieted Sam and Dean for a minute...until…

“Ow! You jerk! Dad, he elbowed me in the face!”

“Did not, you big baby; you ran your face into my elbow trying to get the stupid remote.”

“Boys!” John shouted, jerking his head up to find Sam sticking his tongue out at Dean, who was holding the coveted remote just out of reach. Both immediately snapped to attention, but John didn’t miss the sidelong glares they were sneaking at each other. Not that he blamed them; it was the dog days of Summer; no school to keep them occupied and nothing to do. Boys should be running outside on a day like this, not cooped up inside a tiny motel room climbing the walls. 

“That’s it, I can’t work like this. You guys get out of here. Go to the pool, and stick together.”

Sam’s eyes grew three sizes. 

“Really Dad?”

“Really kiddo, that’s what I said,” he grinned, feeling a rare flash of pleasure and pride at seeing his boys happy because of a decision he’d made. “Dean, you good to handle this?”

Dean looked up and nodded eagerly, already digging through the duffle bags in search of trunks. He’d grown out of his Dukes of Hazzard ones so he tossed them over at Sam, who had always been jealous of the General Lee peppering the design. 

“Yes sir! We’ll be careful. Ready Sammy? First one there gets the remote for a week!”

John didn’t even try to get back to work until the flurry of activity and loud, excited voices died down with the bang of the room door. He crossed the room to pull a beer from the honor bar and sat back down at the little table by the window, watching his sons race each other to the pool. No one else was out there, it was too hot for most, but the kids had to get some of that wired energy out of them. 

The ancient digital clock on the bedside table made a soft clicking noise every time the red numbers flashed. A rush of water through the pipes filtered quietly through the walls, a muffled thud from the ceiling gave testament to activity in other parts of the building. A door several rooms down opened and closed. The faint stench of stale cigarette smoke and marijuana seeping from the carpet and furniture. The familiar ambiance of a cheap motel. 

John sighed, taking a long drink before uncapping the red marker with his teeth and getting back to work, glancing every now and then to make sure he could still see Sam and Dean. Vigilant as always, ready to spring to action at any time. An hour passed...two. He looked up less and less. It was good to have quiet to work in, and he needed to make the most of it. They were fine; Dean was teaching Sam to dive. Sam was chasing Dean around with a wet towel. Both boys were doing laps. Both boys were...wait. 

The rickety chair grunted as it was shoved back and clattered over on its side, fracturing a few splinters from the finish and leaving the bright gleam of cheap wood showing. John’s breath caught in his throat, squinting out against the sun. He didn’t see any of the four-foot splashes that accompanied his boys’ normal pool activities. He didn’t see anything. Where were they? 

...No. 

No, this couldn’t be- two motionless shapes, barely disturbing the still water, interrupting the blinding reflection from the waves with their limp forms. Lifeless. Mary, no. The next moments were a blur of panic and a yawning abyss of delirium as he closed the distance between himself and his sons, not bothering to close the door, letting it slam behind him, clearing the pool fence in a leap and plunging in without a thought. 

When Dean’s head jerked up, spluttering and coughing in surprise, John’s heart stuttered. Alive. Thank God...Sammy’s wide eyes and flailing limbs as he was deposited beside his brother on solid ground was nearly comical if it hadn’t brought such profound relief. John stood staring at them, chest heaving as he felt the sharp, panicked beats of his heart regulating, felt the adrenaline high draining off as his sons sat staring at him, blinking in confusion. 

“...Dad?”

Dean sounded worried. If this was some kind of joke, he darn well should be. John heaved himself out of the pool, his soaked layers adding pounds of weight, running his hands over them looking for any injuries. Sam’s teeth were chattering, more from surprise than cold, although that water had been pretty bracing. Satisfied, John felt the last ebbs of horror die away, replaced by something else entirely. 

The chilly water streaming down out of his hair and pouring from his clothes suddenly had no bearing on the fact that heat was building dangerously inside him; his jaw tightened as he asked a few clarifying questions, trying to understand what he’d just witnessed. 

“We made it a game, Dad,” Sam said, and something snapped. John’s furious grip was enough to drag the boys behind him effortlessly, propelling them forward even when Dean stumbled a little and Sammy tripped once, growling harsh reprimands all the way. Research was forgotten; his wayward sons were about to be made fully aware how John felt about stupid, dangerous pranks. 

When he got them inside he ordered them to clean up, and then went into the bathroom a moment, slamming the door, peeling off the dripping flannel and denim. He needed to cool down...but it wasn’t working. Heck, he knew it wouldn’t, not until this was taken care of. His eyes hardened as he threaded his belt through a dry pair of jeans, leaving it unbuckled. I’ll be using it soon, anyway, he thought, grimly, those boys aren’t gonna die on my watch but somebody’s gonna wish they had. He snatched a ratty hand-towel from the rack and raked it over his head, snatching open the door, fury coming off him in waves. Waiting was pointless. 

It only took a minute to get a confession out of Dean. The kid got in his fair share of trouble, but he was never one to hide from it. John was willing to let most things slide; cursing, getting into a drink when he thought Dad didn’t see, stealing as long as he wasn’t caught...it was a tough life and John was raising survivors. But dangerous things, things that endangered the family or the hunt, those were the unforgivable sins. And Dean knew better. John could see it in his eyes as he scraped out a husky “Yes sir”. 

He also knew what was coming. He saw Dad’s belt, the buckle loose and undone, ready to be whipped out at any time. John took a grim satisfaction in the resignation he saw in his eldest boy’s stance, even though there was something vaguely heartbreaking about it. Sammy was clueless; a shaking, pale mess, on the verge of tears simply from his father’s harsh voice. 

“Alright, enough with the water-works, Sam. Hit the showers and then get in bed. I don’t wanna hear anything from you until after dinner. Go.”   
John froze a moment in surprise when Sam threw himself into his arms, clinging tightly for a moment. He allowed himself a brief rib-crushing squeeze before he pushed Sam away, expecting immediate obedience and waiting until the sound of the shower was heard behind the bathroom door. This was between him and Dean now, and they both had an unspoken agreement. Sam never needed to know. 

“Outside, son. Move.”

Dean turned without a word, John following close behind him, closing the room door firmly behind them, relegating them to the relative privacy of an empty motel parking lot under the infernal sun, the heat of the day bringing back the force of John’s anger in full swing. His heavy hand fell on the back of Dean’s neck; he wanted him to feel it as he was marched toward his punishment. 

Sammy could have died, Dean could have died, and it was his fault. John meant to beat some sense into him; stupidity was not going to be the reason he lost his sons, not on his watch. And if that meant thrashing his son until he wept, then that’s what it meant. Dean didn’t hesitate, his steps didn’t falter as John steered him toward the Impala and gave him a shove at the hood as his hands went to his belt, sliding it through the loops and folding it in half. He noticed Dean’s head drop a little at the sound, leaning forward over the shining metal in response to the unspoken order. Good. 

John didn’t waste time. His large, strong hand settled in the middle of Dean’s back and shoved him down, further, harder than was needed. The first crack of the belt wasn’t controlled. John just let fly, stroke after stroke ricocheting off the concrete and asphalt in sickening echoes, brittle little snaps that mocked the fiery agony and power behind each lash. Dean’s body was rigid as a board under his hand, but there wasn’t any movement. Not even when he turned his head to bite his shirt. John lowered the belt, looking down on the trembling form of his eldest.   
He was unnaturally quiet. 

“Are you holding your breath?” he asked, affronted anger against stirring in his chest. Of all the defiant...Dean raised up a little suddenly, letting all the pent-up breath out and gasping to draw in a shaky lungful, coming back from wherever he’d gone in his mind and apparently being hit with the full force of the pain his body was being subjected to. Good. Let him feel it. Let him feel every second. 

“D*** it, Dean. You’re gonna stay with me,” he growled, “You’re gonna stay with me kid, I won’t let you go.” The next stroke was fueled with all the terror and black loss of the moment he’d seen them motionless in that water, facedown...the belt literally whistled as it tore through the air and Dean nearly lost position when it landed, a harsh strangled gasp scraping his throat. John slammed him back down violently, grinding his hips into the hood, ignoring the choked whimper. 

He didn’t stop. 

Not when he saw the smudge of blood on the shoulder of Dean’s shirt where he’d been biting it before he shifted and buried his face in his arms. Not when his heaving breaths grew too fast. Not when Dean covered his head with his arms, trying to protect himself from the wild stray blows that glanced off his back and bit his shoulders every now and then. Not when Dean’s legs gave way, and leaning against the car was the only thing keeping him up. 

He stopped when he heard sobbing. 

Suddenly the red haze faded and the image of his quivering boy lying over the Impala smudged like an oil painting melting in the rain. The belt fell out of John’s hand, the buckle clinking against the asphalt; he scrubbed a hand across his face to clear his vision, and discovered that the tears he’d heard weren’t Dean’s. With a harsh gasp he swallowed the sound, the aching tightness in his chest almost unbearable. Dean stayed down, knowing better than to move without permission. His shoulders heaved, his body limp and submissive to the torment he truly thought he deserved. 

John took a moment, leaning down to retrieve his belt, putting it back on, slowly, feeling the sweat running down his back from the sun and the wild exertion. He scrubbed the tears from his face, composing himself behind that stern unshakeable exterior before he grabbed Dean by the arm, pulling him upright, laying his other hand on the side of his son’s head, studying him. Dean’s face was covered in sweat, deathly white with bright red cheeks and forehead, flushed with too much heat and agony. His eyes were glassy and red-rimmed and tear-tracks cut through the sweat, but his jaw was steady. 

Before John could say anything, Dean grabbed his arm weakly, offering a tiny, exhausted smile through his bleeding lip. 

“It’s okay, Dad,” he said. I understand you miss Mom. I understand you need us. I understand you were scared. I understand why you do it. “It’ll be okay.”

John felt a stab of pain. He cleared his throat, gruffly, ruffling Dean’s hair.

“Now it is, tiger. Go get some rest.” That’s all he would say, even now. But it was okay. Dean understood. He couldn’t look at his son as he walked carefully back into the room, each step a concentrated effort on wobbly legs. He closed the door behind them, locking out the blazing sunlight and the searing image of what had just happened, heading straight for his Fireball whisky, draining what was left in the flask as he righted the chair by the table and sat heavily. 

It was dark. 

The familiar sounds of the motel again filled the silence. The sheets rustled softly as Dean struggled into bed beside his brother. Quiet whispers filtered through the cool comfort of the respite. John’s eyes flicked up, finally, sending a warning glance toward his boys. The drink was calming his nerves; he couldn’t let his authority be in question. Ever. That’s just how this family had to work. 

But if he pretended not to hear the last few whispers of comfort between his sons, then he wouldn’t have to call them out. And so John did not hear them.


	3. Red Handed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the next day, and Dean's moving a bit slower than usual. John thinks that maybe this whole mess isn't over just yet. Cue the aftercare and a loving Daddy trying to mend his fences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The long-promised third chapter. Special, amazing, and profound thanks to Edge_of_Clairvoyance for being a huge encouragement, a great beta, and a beautiful representation of what a writing community should feel like. <3

Why were motel carpets so awful? Dean scrunched his nose in disgust as he lowered his face down close to it once more before pushing away again. The thin, scratchy stuff did nothing to mask the hardness of the unforgiving concrete beneath it, the pattern was vaguely reminiscent of pill-bugs on old plywood, and the smudges and stains marking it up didn’t bear thinking about. Then there was that threadbare tear by the corner of Dad’s bed; all three of them had tripped over it at least once since they’d checked in. But the worst part was the roughness, how it scraped and pricked at the raw, angry red of Dean’s hands.

“Deaaaaaan. Hurry up!” Sammy was bouncing impatiently on the end of the bed, watching his older brother toiling away. He’d finished his required PT this morning a long time ago. At first he was jubilant at having finally bested his big brother, but it had quickly worn off as he watched how painfully slow Dean was plodding on.

Dean didn’t answer except with a grunt, biting his lip as he pushed up again. It hurt. He’d been in pain before of course; the dull, aching throb all along his back from shoulders to knees was easy to pretend it was from previous exercises. But the sting of the heavier welts as he started to sweat was a little more present in his mind. The burns were the worst though; sharp pain jabbing fiercely through his fingers and palms, chaffed further by the rough synthetic rug. Stupid carpet.

“Sam, leave your brother alone. Get some breakfast set out,” John said, shortly, coming out of the bathroom still buttoning his shirt over his wide, bronzed chest after a shower. He wasn’t in a bad mood, but Dad spoke in orders. Always. He watched Dean a minute and then sat down on the bed.

“Dean. Come here, please.”

Dean felt dread squirm in his stomach. What had he done wrong? He knew he was moving slower this morning but Dad usually gave them until breakfast to finish PT and Sam hadn’t set out the cereal yet. He obediently stood up, forcing himself not to move stiffly through a stubborn set of his jaw, and moved front and center. At least his hands got some blessed relief. He pressed them to his sides as he stood at attention, discreet and unnoticed.

“Yessir?”

“You finish that summer reading your teacher assigned you?”

“Aww Dad…”

“I did!” Sammy piped up helpfully. Dean rolled his eyes and shifted in irritation. Dad almost smiled.

“Dean?”

“No sir, I don’t see the point. I’ll do it if you want me to, though. I just thought I did enough reading doing research; not a bookworm like Sam.” Dean was honest, even cracked a little sardonic grin on the last line. To his relief Dad huffed a laugh and smiled, teeth white in that dark face and eyes shining. Dean’s chest expanded and all was right with the world.

“Yeah, I guess you do, sport. Tell you what. I’ll let you switch out whatever crap that English teacher assigned you for a chapter of Dante. When you both have read your chapter, we’ll all go out to the pool for an hour or two before it gets too hot. The morgue doesn’t open until noon anyway.”

Dean grinned. Dad taking a break to spend time with them? That was the best treat in the world. Sammy was busy choking and arguing about how “Where the Red Fern Grows” was not crap at all and that he’d much rather read that than Dante, but Dean was all smiles. He didn’t even hesitate when the time came to sit for breakfast.

John watched him carefully, noticing how the skin around his boy’s eyes tightened with the contact with the chair. Dean didn’t complain though. Not at all. In fact his green eyes were genuinely bright and happy as he jostled Sam playfully with his shoulder and reached for the carton of milk. Sam jostled him back and snatched the carton from him, all in good fun, but Dean voiced a sharp, breathless profanity and drew his hand back close to his body, an odd expression on his face. Sam paused, carton in his hand poised over his cereal bowl, looking at Dean uncertainly.

“What? Dean…?”

John squinted at his son, keenly.

Dean shook his head and stood up quickly, his chair scraping across the floor.

“Uh, sorry. I didn’t mean to cuss atcha Sammy...it’s nothin’. Be right back,” he murmured, heading to the bathroom. Sam glanced at Dad questioningly but John didn’t seem to offer any explanation if he had one, and Sam shrugged and went back to his cereal, eager to get Dante out of the way in favor of the pool. John was almost ready to go knock on the door to check on Dean when he came back out and met John’s eyes to reassure him that nothing was amiss. John watched him once again, but decided not to press the issue. He just wanted to cut the boys a little slack and give them a nice day. One nice day to be kids.

“Here’s the milk you big jerk,” Sammy said, sliding it warily back toward his brother after the odd incident a few minutes before. Dean flashed a winning smile at him.

“Thanks for that, tiger. Hey, betcha a buck I can be done with breakfast before ya and beat you getting the chapter done.” His eyes were shining playfully. Sam scoffed, turning that prim little nose in the air that John secretly thought was adorable.

“Please, are you kidding me? You’ve never finished a reading assignment before me.”

Dean forewent the spoon and picked up the bowl, draining the contents of his soggy breakfast in three or four big gulps and then smirked at his kid brother.

“I guess today will be a new record, then, won’t it?”

John stood up, gathering the few dishes to rinse out in the sink while the boys scrambled for the assigned book before the other got his hands on it. Dean won of course, having finished his cereal a good thirty seconds before Sam.

“Daaad. How’re we supposed to get our reading done quick when Dean’s hogging the book?” Sam whined. Dean was already flipping through the pages, looking for the shortest chapter. Dad had said to read one, he didn’t say which one it had to be. John chuckled.

“You could be creative and work as a team, and read your chapter together out loud. Or, if you wanna make it a contest, there’s another copy under the front seat I was gonna take to Bobby next time we saw him.”

Sam sprang up, intending to dash out to the car, but suddenly he paused, a shadow passing over his face as he glanced over at Dean. Dad hadn’t liked it when they made training a game yesterday. Sam didn’t know what Dad said to Dean when he was in the shower, but he knew Dad had been really mad. Maybe it wasn’t such a great idea. He glanced back toward the door and then climbed up on the bed beside Dean, peeking over his shoulder as he settled on a good starting place. Dean looked over at him in surprise.

“Tag-teaming, huh? I guess you’re right; you read quicker and we’ll be done faster like this anyway. Good thinkin’, Sammy.”

It took barely a half hour to get everything done to John’s satisfaction, and the pool water was bright and sparkling in the morning sun as Sam streaked toward it, towel slung over his bare shoulder, running ahead of John and Dean. John sighed, contentedly, willing all thoughts of the hunt from his mind for now. Sammy ran to the deep end and poised himself eagerly like Dean had showed him yesterday.

“Dad! Dean, watch this! I’m gonna do it!”

The dive was robust if not quite streamlined, and John laughed, nodding in approval and bringing a sunny smile of bliss from his youngest when his head broke the water, long hair streaming down into his face. Dean smirked playfully from where he was spreading the towels over the backs of pool chairs to warm in the sun, and simultaneously scoping out the three or four females in bathing suits lounging around the poolside.

“Pretty good, for a little bitch.”

Sam splashed at him.

“You haven’t even taken your shirt off yet? Get in, you wussy!” The next moment his voice rose in a shocked and delighted scream when John without warning took a running start and crashed into the water with the force of a cannonball, sending a truly magnificent splash into the air and slapping Sam in the face with the aftershock. Dean laughed, making his way down to the shallow end and standing on the steps, leaning his hip carefully against the railing, watching longingly.

The water looked beautiful, honestly. It felt so good on his legs, and the sun was already burning through his thin tee-shirt material, reigniting the sting from yesterday. A swim might just loosen up some of the sore muscles and soothe the damaged skin. But the chlorine would ruin his shirt, and everything Dean wore was to be passed down to Sam. They didn’t waste anything. And Dean was not taking his shirt off. That was final.

He leaned down to dip his burned hands in; that was heaven. He jumped when Dad’s shadow fell over him; he hadn’t heard him coming over.

“Hey kiddo,” his voice was warm, but Dean could tell he was trying to determine if he was sulking. Sulking was never allowed. “Not feeling up to the swim? PT is over for the day so this isn’t for exercise. Just to relax. It’s too hot to stand out like that. Come on, I’d like you to get in.”

Dean felt his heart twist strangely at the way his Dad was phrasing things. John didn’t say “he’d like” for you to do anything, and he didn’t explain himself. He spoke in orders, plain and simple. Dean felt touched, and guilty that his Dad felt the need to coddle him like this. Was he really being that obvious? Still, Dad’s request was something to be obeyed, and Dean took a step further down into the water, stiffening a little as the cool water touched the punished skin under his trunks before the initial shock melted to a comforting ease. It did feel nice. Crap.

“I just, I didn’t wanna ruin my shirt Dad, sorry. Didn’t wanna take it off and steal all the attention of the pretty girls. You and Sammy need a chance, right?” He forced one of his patent grins. 

John looked at him for a long moment, and Dean realized his nonchalant playacting wasn’t getting past Dad. Of course not. John was the best.

“Take it off,” John said, quietly. There was no threat in his words; they were gentle. “Let me see.”

Dean’s hands went to the hem of his shirt, but his eyes scanned the pool nervously for anyone watching. A cute brunette that looked to be about high-school age was perching on the edge of her chair, impossibly long legs bronzing to a gorgeous brown as she watched him, rewarding him with a dazzling smile and a little wave when he looked her direction. He winked and nodded back.

“Dad, it’s really okay…”

John felt other eyes on them and breathed out through his nose, nodding once. His oldest wasn’t a drama queen, not about stuff like this. Whatever Dean was trying to hide under that shirt must not reflect well on John, and the last thing he needed was police and CPS being called to take his boys away.

“Alright. Go beguile the hapless female with your charms.”

Dad sent him a subtle wink and a smile and turned back to chase Sam across the pool when the younger boy was announcing shrilly that since he was smaller he could probably swim faster because of water resistance or some geeky equivalent. Dean felt the tight coil in his stomach relax, and Brunette was still eyeing him. No harm in saying hi.

\------------

Sammy was out like a light, the prized remote still in his hand as the tv droned about the scientific workings of a bat’s natural sonar. The sun and swim had left them all comfortably drowsy even though it was only noon. Dean gathered the empty fry boxes and burger wrappers off the little table, making room for his Dad. John was buttoning up his white dress shirt to get ready to go over to the morgue, but when Dean turned back around from clearing away the trash, he was sitting on the edge of the empty bed with his hands resting on his thighs, sleeves rolled up, his duffel at his feet.

“Come here, buddy,” he said, patting the bed next to him. Dean glanced hurriedly over at Sam, but he was still sound asleep, snoring gently. He crossed the few steps to John.

“It’s really okay, Dad. Nothing I can’t handle.”

“Shirt off, Dean.”

Dean held his breath, reaching obediently for the back of his shirt to drag it over his head. John reached out and took him by the upper arm, turning him around to look at his back. His teeth ground together and his hand tightened unconsciously at the bruises across his son’s shoulders where the end of the belt had flown wide and bit deep. He could only imagine what the worst of it must be like.

“And your hands?”

“Dad, I-”

“Hands.”

Dean turned slowly, dutifully, and held out his hands for inspection. John could see the palms and fingers were angry and red, a few blisters were trying to form under Dean’s calloused skin. One of them had already ruptured; probably why Dean had made a quick retreat to the bathroom during breakfast. The car. The car had been too hot, out in the sun, and he’d forced him… John’s face was grave and impassive, but Dean could see the emotion in the way the muscle at the side of his jaw twitched.

“I deserved it, Dad.”

John looked up at Dean’s face at the soft voice. His gaze melted into a tenderness that was reserved only for his children, and he reached a hand up, palm and thumb gentle on Dean’s face, fingers in his hair for a brief moment before his hand slid down to his shoulder and squeezed. Dean closed his eyes a moment and his brow furrowed, using all his self-discipline to swallow the painful lump that was stubbornly trying to lodge in his throat. When he opened his eyes, Dad was smiling proudly, and nodded once to him.

He reached down into his duffle and brought out some gauze, a tube of antibiotic gel, and a tin of horse liniment. Dean didn’t say anything as John quietly and efficiently wrapped his hands with the gauze and antibiotic, a light but functional job that wouldn’t get too much in his way. He’d make something up to tell Sammy later; maybe something about doing pushups on the blacktop outside to impress the pool girl. Sam’d buy that, easy. A silent nod of direction from John, and after another anxious glance at Sam, Dean took a deep breath, lowered his trunks to uncover the rest of the damage and lay stretched out face-down on the bed. He buried his burning face in the pillow, breathing evenly as he waited for Dad. He flinched at the first cold touch of the horse liniment; Dad didn’t say anything but suddenly his other hand was on Dean’s head again, and at the gesture Dean felt a tear escape to heat the pillow hiding his face.

The strong, distinctive smell of the liniment was both comforting and familiar. It stung a little at first, but Dad’s hands were careful and slow as he smoothed it over and worked it in, and Dean could already feel the effects seeping in and melting the worst of the pain. He was breathing slow and even by the time Dad was done, his mind somewhere half-asleep. But he was awake enough to murmur a dutiful “yes, sir” when John laid out two pills next to a bottle on the nightstand in easy reach with instructions to take them and rest until he got back. And with a last look at his sons, John left the room.

John stopped when he saw the Impala sitting in the sunny lot, just as it had been yesterday. He walked over, and pressed his hand to the hood, grinding his teeth in rage at the searing burn he felt. He got in, started the car, and bowed his head to the steering wheel. God Almighty...Mary, baby, forgive me. Then he scrubbed a hand over his face, geared his mind for the hunt, and pulled out.

The morgue was a bust. The leads were running out. And what normally would have had John running himself into the ground with frustration, today brought relief. The growl of the Impala was pulling up outside the motel room by five, and an hour later, John watched smiling as Sammy and Dean spread a blanket over the hood of the old muscle car and scattered snacks all over it, chattering delightedly, as the Drive-In filled up around them and the big outdoor screen flickered to life. Dean sprawled comfortably on his stomach, already making a dent in the licorice as Sammy expounded bat sonar. One looping overhead had just reminded him.

John gave Sam a wad of bills to go get icies from the concession stand, and slipped two more pills -discreetly- into Dean’s hand as Sam trotted away; he didn’t say anything about earlier, but his smile made Dean feel like the world was golden.

And if Dean snuck the pills back into the bottle later, John never found out.


End file.
